


Without Mercy, Without Fear

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Comprises What Pride Had Wrought and half of The Final Piece, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, I Fixed Morrigan's Humansplaining, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mid-Canon, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Poor Life Choices, Present Tense, Probably this counts as child endangerment, Psychotropic Drugs, The Adoribull stuff is just one scene sorry, Use of In-Game Dialogue, pregnancy mention, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition tracks Corypheus' armies to a temple deep in the Arbour Wilds and must race to stop him from claiming the power within. Comprises the whole of What Pride Had Wrought and the first half of The Final Piece; recontextualizes Morrigan's dialogue to avoid her humansplaining to an elven Inquisitor. The price of great power is always more than what one expects...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Mercy, Without Fear

_**Three days before, early evening**_  
_**A camp near the Arbour Wilds** _  
  
Iskia feels strange calling this a tent. The walls are cloth, but it is larger than any room she has slept in save her chambers at Skyhold. The desk is only a little smaller than her normal one, and that just because it is designed to collapse for transport.  
  
There are already reports waiting for her before the workers finish setting the room up. She smiles at the notion; paperwork soothes her. Soothes her when just the thought of the battles to come make her ears rattle.  
  
She has no real care for the contents of the reports; she knows the stores are well-managed. But the paper shakes less in her hands the longer she reads and her signature is nearly steady.  
  
A false peace, but anything to think of something besides the inevitable. Foolish as that might be. Better to prepare, no? She reads the same line detailing the turnip inventory three times over. She puts the paper down. Should she get up? There really isn't much for her to do right now. But this is too idle.  
  
She rises all at once, just in time for the tent-flap to open.  
  
Blackwall lets himself in. "My Lady," he says. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?" He lingers by the entrance all the same, as if she might throw him out. Never. She launches herself at him. He barely has the time to look surprised before her face is pressed to his chest, arms curled tight around him. She holds onto him like he might run away (he has before, hasn't he?). "Evidently not," he murmurs into her hair. His arms lift, curling her close, a shield against the world. "Ssh," he says. "We're not there yet, love. Take a deep breath." He has done this before, too many times.  
  
"I'm such a burden to you," she says, but she does as he says. She takes a slow, deep breath, lets it out on his neck. "I'm sorry. I should be stronger." But she does not let go, and he squeezes her tighter.  
  
"You're no burden," he says, his breath hot in her hair. "I wish I had your strength. I am here." He cannot possibly be thinking that. He has become a man of principle, and there is nothing in her to admire. Not for one who sees her so clearly as he does. But he holds her tight until she pulls away, catching her breath.  
  
Iskia steps to the bed, still puffy after the creases from packing had been fluffed out. She drops onto it, falling hard. "I'm afraid you won't be," she says. "I'm always afraid. I'm afraid of everything. But I think more than anything, I'm afraid of needing you and finding you gone. Because you were. Gone, I mean. When I needed you."  
  
And Blackwall just bows his head, standing on the opposite side of the tent.  
  
"And why would you stay?" Iskia laughs, sharp and bitter, edged with unfallen tears. "I can't help but be cruel to you. One day you'll leave. Or you'll be taken from me."  
  
He goes to her, sits with her and takes her shaking hand. "I know I've ruined any trust you placed in me. I hope one day I can earn it back. Not for my own sake. But for your own ease. I hate seeing what that mistrust does to you." Hand squeezed tight, he lays down next to her.  
  
Iskia pulls up to his chest, back within the circle of his arms. "It's fair for you to hurt me that way," she says. "Because I won't do anything to stop hurting you. Because I _want_ you to." She reaches for his hand, squeezes it tight. The smile she gives him is bent and joyless.  
  
"It's not fair," says Blackwall, enfolding her hand in his. He squeezes her tight with his other arm. "It's not fair for me to hurt you that way. And don't ask for the other way. I won't. Not with you in this mood."  
  
She smiles more easily now. This is a far easier subject for her, and they both know it: she seizes onto his distraction like a lifeline. "Are you sure? Now that you mention it, it might help. That would be really good, actually. But, no. I've been queasy for the past few days. Nothing a cup of tea or three hasn't settled down, so I think it's just nerves." Iskia sighs and rubs her cheek on his shoulder. "After tea, maybe? No, but I'd tell you to go too far right now. You're right. You're too good for me."  
  
"I'm no such thing. But I'm proud of you for saying you're not feeling well. For once." Blackwall raises his hands, unties the ribbon from Iskia's hair and lets it down. "But your nerves are definitely getting the better of you right now. Try to relax, love."  
  
"I'm trying. I really am," says Iskia, exhaling. "How about a compromise? If I'm feeling better after tea, why don't you flip me over your lap and spank me until it's so red I can't sit down? That's, mn, harmless. Something to linger in the morning on the horse." She leans up, kisses him long and slow, fingers lingering in his beard. "No, I'm sorry, I just..."  
  
Blackwall kisses her in return, curling his hand around the back of her head. "We'll see. Just breathe right now. Get the rest while we can still get it. You'll hold up. I know you will." She lets her head fall into his hand, letting him hold the weight. It would be so easy to just let him squeeze her close, breathe in his arms. To just let go.  
  
Iskia sighs. "Thank you," she says against his neck. "You're... just what I need." She could just drown in him, but she would never pull herself back from that precipice. But she can relax a little, maybe, with him here. It feels wrong to, with the enemy only days away. But she knows she pushes herself too far, too fast, too hard.  
  
"I don't know why me, when you could have any man who pleased you," he murmurs, placing kisses against her cheek. He snugs her body closer against his, and she can feel every bit of his warmth. Yes, it's easier now.  
  
" _You_ please me," she says, lifting her head to look him in the eye. "Let's just... both lay off that tonight. I don't want to have this argument again." She raises her hand, curling her fingers in his beard. Ready to give it a tug if he objects.  
  
"As you wish," says Blackwall, turning his head to kiss the back of her hand, though she doesn't quite let go of his beard. He doesn't seem inclined to remove it, either. "Ready for tea, then?"  
  
"No," says Iskia, fingers flexing against his cheek. "Just stay like this with me for a little longer."  
  


* * *

_**Two days before, after dark**_  
_**A camp in the fringes of the Arbour Wilds**_  
  
"I don't know why I'm here," says Dorian, sitting up halfway. This isn't his tent. Could it be? He doesn't know that, either. He's not sure he wants to know yet.  
  
"Door's right there, Vint," says the Bull, waving to the tent-flap. He reclines on his elbows after, watching Dorian closely. "If you don't wanna be here, I'm not keeping you. I'd put pants on first, though. Just a tip."  
  
"That sounds like how you got me in here in the first place," Dorian says. He looks to his clothes, tossed randomly about the tent. _Does_ he want to go? He sighs and leans back on the bedroll. No, not really. But what does that mean for him? "I just-- I never imagined myself in this position before." That's a lie. But he doesn't want to admit _that_ to Bull. He would be so insufferably smug to hear it. And he doesn't need the help with that.  
  
Bull laughs anyway. Of course he does. " _I've_ imagined you in this position," he says. Then he ogles Dorian. That man somehow does more on the ogle with one eye than most ever could with two. Dorian can't help but blush. "Look," he says. "If you don't want it to be anything, it doesn't have to be anything. Lots of people let off steam before battles this way. And after. Don't think I haven't seen you do just that."  
  
Dorian looks away. He tries to be subtle about such things, of course. But there's subtle and there's subtle, and he supposes this is what the Bull does. "As if you'd ever let me live this down," he says. "Besides, this is... this is different. I _know_ you."  
  
"You came to me," says Iron Bull. "This wasn't even the first time. Believe me, if you step past my door, I will bend you over, and I will make you squeal. If you want to agonize over what it means besides that, by all means. Me, I'm just going to sit here, picturing how your toes curl when I hold your hands behind your back and push you to the ground." He slides his tongue over his teeth, making a low noise as he looks Dorian up and down.  
  
"Kaffas," mutters Dorian. "It had to be you, of all people." And he has to be _good_ at it, too. That's the worst part. Despite himself, Dorian looks his way over the Bull's naked body. Andraste preserve him, but he is impressive to gaze upon. And honestly, the notion of someone who he sees more often than every other trip to Skyhold appeals. As good as that is for keeping arrangements casual. There's certainly an appeal to having a partner on the road, too. At least, the Inquisitor seems to sell him on the notion. He's not sure she'd be at all able to hold a coherent conversation otherwise.  
  
"Hey, everyone wants to ride the Bull," says that very Bull, before leaning back, hands behind his head. "You know you get this little thing right between your eyebrows when you're thinking? Look, now's a bad time to be deciding much of anything. Show up. Don't. If something happens, we'll work it out then. Of course, no expectations with that. You do what you do, I'll keep on with what I do. Something changes, it changes."  
  
Oh, and he has to be reasonable about this. Qunari bastard. All of this would be much easier if he could just be what Dorian expects of such a one. Dorian makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Fine," he says. "If you're going to be like that about it, I might just have to stay here for a little while longer."  
  
Bull leans over to snap a smack on Dorian's bottom that leaves him stinging. "Attaboy," he says. "You ready for round two?"  
  


* * *

_**The night before**_  
_**The Arbour Wilds**_  
  
It's dark enough that Blackwall can walk through the camp with a measure of privacy. The reactions he gets may well be perfectly well-justified, but that doesn't mean he enjoys them. It makes going much of anywhere difficult, especially in a crowded camp. And with the Orlesian armies accompanying? There's no quiet anywhere to be found. He's heard the Empress herself has come. That might be unwise, but he cannot help but admire the woman for that.  
  
Quiet is a relative term, though. There's always bustle in a camp, and this close to the front, reports are flying. In the distance, he sees fire flashing through the trees. Too close. But far enough away for now.  
  
By all means, he should be getting some rest. But Iskia is hearing reports for the next hour at least. The noise wouldn't stop him from sleeping, but Iskia would hardly appreciate if he did that. That would be unwise. Whether it's as unwise as her staying up to take the reports now rather than in the morning is a difficult question. But getting her to do that wouldn't be worth the trouble at all.  
  
Is she all he thinks about lately? Well, she is _terribly_ distracting, and anything for a distraction, really. At Skyhold, or alone on the road, it wouldn't be much of a problem. Here... yes, definitely. Can't even really run drills at this hour. Almost makes him wish he was more of a reader. Maybe knitting. That's easily transported, and he always needs socks.  
  
"Hey there, Hero," Blackwall turns to find Varric walking toward him. "You free? I could go for a game of cards. Just a friendly game."  
  
"Why not," says Blackwall. He can think of worse people to run into. He always seems to get the results of any given tourney up in the Marches before anyone else. "I need something to do with my time."  
  
"Great," says Varric, waving him along. He leads Blackwall over to the fire outside his tent. He has a couple of folding chairs and a table set up out front. A deck of cards is already waiting out. "Not as fancy as the big tent, but I guess you're getting sick of that by now."  
  
"I don't think I'll ever get used to it," he says, sitting first. Varric takes the other seat and starts shuffling. "But at least I haven't had to worry about rocks under the bedroll the whole time." He's really not sure what to make of a soft bed, even now. He'd spent years sleeping on anything at all, so Iskia's insistence on that count is one of the more significant day-to-day changes. It seems almost ungrateful.  
  
"So does she actually like all that luxury?" asks Varric, starting to deal. "Or do they just not give her an option? I don't know many Dalish who really go for that sort of thing."  
  
Blackwall picks up his cards and sorts his hand. "I think she does like it. She's... not like any elf I've ever known. Or any woman, for that matter. I don't pretend to understand what she sees in me."  
  
"Lots of women go for that brooding look," Varric says, eyeballing his cards, then discarding two. "Could just be attracted to those smoky looks."  
  
"I don't _brood_ ," he says, frowning over his hand. "Why does everyone say that I do?"  
  
Varric rolls his eyes. "Because you _do_ , Hero. You brood all the time. You scowl at the clouds if the weather goes bad. You're brooding at your cards right now. Not that there's anything wrong with that. If you cared to look, you'd probably have to beat women off with sticks when you look like that."  
  
"Wonderful. Do I have any other personal habits you're going to put into your book? This is for the book, right?" Blackwall rocks his chair back, stretching out his legs a little more. He does not glare at Varric. Absolutely not. Just as well this game isn't for money, because he'd be losing already by the look of his hand.  
  
"Oh, don't be like that," Varric says. He turns a little to warm his feet by the fire. "Still, it wouldn't kill you to smile every now and again, you know." He lowers his cards, setting them face-down just long enough to clap a fly between his hands. He dusts the remains off into the dirt.  
  
Blackwall makes his play, then looks down at his cards for a good while longer. He says, eventually, "I do smile. Seems if I get caught doing it in public lately, people take it as a challenge. It gets... tiresome."  
  
"Yeah, that's rough for sure," says Varric. He swaps out two cards, then considers his hand for a little longer. "But you've got friends, at least. Don't forget that. You should come out more, when we get back to Skyhold."  
  
"I should," agrees Blackwall while Varric plays. No, he's definitely going to lose this hand. Only question is how long this is going to drag out. "It's hard to tell how I fit into things anymore. Does anyone?" Iskia knows, at least, but there's more to him than just her. No matter how she tries to sweep everything up into her.  
  
"I guess not. Is Cassandra still not speaking to you? And that's my hand. You want to deal this one?" Varric scoops up the cards and squares the deck off, shuffling through it a time or two before offering it to Blackwall. He reaches over to take it, shuffling it a few times himself.  
  
Blackwall slides his fingers over the edge of the deck a time or two, then deals. "I don't know," he says, setting the deck down and inspecting his hand. Better, this time. "It'll take time to earn back her trust. If I ever do." He discards one, drawing to replace, then lets Varric take his turn at it.  
  
Varic shrugs, making some swaps with his hand. "Well, she does hate it when people lie to her," says Varric. He leans back, scratches an itch on his cheek, then mutters, "At least she didn't stab you in the book."  
  
"Don't you mean the back?" Blackwall asks. If Varric is going to offer a change of subject, he's going to take it. Something catches the corner of his eye, and he snaps a hand out, catching a fly of his own. If they're lucky, they won't ever have to come back down here. The humidity alone...  
  
"No, I mean the book," says Varric, glaring at his cards. "Definitely the book. I'm out. This one's yours. You ready for this thing tomorrow? More spelunking in these godawful ruins?"  
  
"You've seen one ancient elven ruin, you've seen them all," says Blackwall, taking in the cards. He shrugs, then squints off into the distance. "Might be Iskia wouldn't like to hear me say it, but that one temple was enough for a lifetime for me. Hip deep in water the whole time, torches kept going out... But we do what we must."  
  
"Oh, come on," says Varric. "This one could be different. It could have snakes."  
  
"You really know how to brighten an evening, Varric."  
  


* * *

_**Morning**_  
_**The Arbour Wilds**_  
  
Once he's made himself presentable (a tall order at this hour), Dorian emerges from his tent and goes to meet up with the others. He is, of course, the last one there, save the Inquisitor. The Iron Bull eyes him lewdly once he insinuates himself into the crowd, but fortunately that's not a new development in their whatever-it-is. Frankly, people would notice something was odd if he didn't. "Good morning, all," says Dorian. Bright and chipper, the best way to annoy people in the morning. And yes, the grunts all around are a delightful reward for that.  
  
Grunts from everyone except Morrigan, of course. "Is the Inquisitor always this late?" she says, drumming her fingers against her arm. "Corypheus is not like to still linger abed." But then, neither of them ever gives the other an inch.  
  
This is going to be beyond tedious if the Inquisitor insists he comes along. Well, hopefully the violence will keep things at least a _little_ bit interesting. "Actually, I believe we're early," he says. "She will arrive on time. Whenever that might be." He smiles. No sense in letting someone who isn't here to defend herself take that.  
  
"She's taking reports," says Blackwall, tightening the last few straps of his armour. "Shouldn't be too much longer."  
  
Dorian examines his nails, shifting his weight from foot to foot. At least the weather here is decent. Stickier than he prefers, but the heat is a welcome change from the route they took through those horrific snowy mountains.  
  
The Inquisitor emerges from her tent, dressed to a razor's edge in her new armour, all dark leather and polished steel, staff slung across her back. She is impeccably, improbably made up, violet framing her eyes starkly enough to make the gold pop. One of the captains flanks her; she does not even look at the group yet. "Make them pay, then, Captain," says the Inquisitor. "Leave none standing. I'd like this to be the end of it. I doubt that's possible, but let's do our best."  
  
"We shall not flinch, your Worship," says the captain, clapping her hand to her breastplate before bowing. "Not a one of us. Andraste guide you, Inquisitor." She strides off to carry out her orders, the Inquisitor nodding authoritatively behind her.  
  
"I wonder," says Morrigan, once Iskia has joined them. "Is it Andraste your soldiers invoke during battle, or does a more _immediate_ name come to mind?" Their frowns are nearly twins of each other. Not that Dorian would ever say so. He likes not having his eyes gouged out.  
  
"We're in the middle of a war, Morrigan," says the Inquisitor, tugging her gloves into place. "Time is short. Now, did you have something important to say, or just the usual?" She presses her lips tightly together, lowering her hands. One foot taps against the ground.  
  
Morrigan fixes the Inquisitor with a steady look. "If your scouts report accurately," she says, "I believe these ruins to be the Temple of Mythal." The name means nothing to Dorian, but it's enough to turn Iskia's expression to a sharp frown.  
  
"I see," she says, and turns her back. "Explain that to anyone who needs it. I have to go over here now." She strides off about four feet and bends over double to relace her boots. Not that her bottom isn't fine enough to show off but this is, perhaps, just a little bit childish of her.  
  
Morrigan folds her arms across her chest. "Because you, of course, see nothing to gain in my knowledge of such things."  
  
Iskia straightens up briefly, placing her boot on a fallen log. "Morrigan," she says. "Five years ago, I swore myself to Mythal. Not my first choice, mind you, and I am not _terribly_ religious in nature, but the fact remains. I am quite studied on the subject of Mythal. Mother of all, protector, et cetera. My clan might not have kept much lore on the eluvians, but you could find a small child in any clan to tell you that much of the gods. If you've something important to say, say it, but do not waste our time with children's tales. Do you think this temple's old enough to house the eluvian you think Corypheus is after?"  
  
A series of explosions in the distance covers over anything Morrigan might ave to say to that. Instead she says, "Let us hope we reach this temple _before_ the entire forest is reduced to ash."  
  
"Small group then," says the Inquisitor. She inclines her head to Blackwall, smiling for the first time this morning. He tilts his head in return. "You're with me, of course. Dorian, does an ancient elven ruin sound like something that might catch your fancy this fine morning?"  
  
Dorian makes half a bow to her. "I'd like nothing better, Inquisitor." He may not much fancy the hike there, especially not with those two going at it, but the chance to investigate something like this? Oh, yes, he'll take this any day of the week.  
  
She nods once, then looks over the group. She sighs, then tilts her head back to Blackwall. "Do you feel up to covering three--" a glance to Morrigan, "--four of us today?" she asks.  
  
Blackwall shrugs. "If I must. You all keep well enough out of the way that I can make it work."  
  
Iskia rubs her hands together, nods to him. Then she sighs, shoulders drooping for half a second before she squares them. "Solas," she says atonally, a hair too fast. "I would value your expertise."  
  
Dorian raises his eyebrows. Oh, it's not _terribly_ surprising to see her swallow her pride this way, but on the other hand, he's been subjected to more than a few drunken rants on the subject of Solas. Some... more coherent than others, all told. Not something she does very often, to be fair, but often enough.  
  
Solas is as mild as ever when he says, "Of course." Iskia's jaw sets visibly at that, and Dorian can practically hear her teeth grinding when Solas bows.  
  
The flash of lost composure is gone. The Inquisitor nods sharply. "Very well. The rest of you, co-ordinate with forces here. Do what you need to do to hold things down. You know what you're doing. You four, then: if any of you has anything they need to take care of before we head out, do it now. Might want to pack lunch, if you haven't."  
  
Well, Dorian already has enough snacks on hand to hold him, probably, so he stays. Nobody else seems to have anything pressing to take them away, so when the others have scattered, it's just the five of them remaining. He dusts his hands off and flexes his knuckles. Well, this shouldn't be awkward at all. Nothing like going through a battlefield in icy silence. Well, it seems his job is to cheer things up. Again. "Looks like we're all ready to go," he says brightly. "Shall we be off?"  
  
So they set off, the Inquisitor diverting a time or two in the camp to take a few final reports. The Empress of Orlais herself is here, and the Inquisitor naturally must pause to speak with her. Iskia silkily dealing with nobility is always a treat regardless. Not that it's more than pleasantries and assurances of the Empress' safety. A few minutes of that and they leave the camp entirely.  
  
The path is well-trodden enough, at least, and the humidity has yet to really kick in. It's almost pleasant, if not for the sounds of the fighting so close. Shame about that. Which... means he should probably be getting ready, to be honest. The Inquisitor has one hand back on her staff, and Blackwall is only a little bit behind her. Dorian glances to Solas, but he's not letting anything slip. Well, maybe the ghost of a smug smile. So hard to tell with him sometimes.  
  
"All right," says the Inquisitor, sliding her staff into her hands. They halt when she points. "Fighting just up ahead, down that hill. Everyone ready?" She slides one foot forward, letting Blackwall into the lead. Battle cries sound up the hill, though Dorian can't see any of the combatants just yet. He readies his own staff while Solas does the same.  
  
"At your word, my Lady," says Blackwall. His sword at the ready, he steps a little further down the hill.  
  
"Go," says Iskia. She waits for Blackwall to take the lead, then says, "You tw-- three, with me."  
  
A small unit is already engaged with the red templars, and the fight is not going well. Three are down by the time Blackwall's shield slams into the closest templar. Dorian ignites him right as Blackwall's sword comes in. Solas takes one further down the hill with a burst of frost, in a single expedient motion. When one tries to sneak around the group, Iskia levels her staff at him, caving in his chest with a fist of power. Morrigan scarcely even has time to lift her staff before it's over.  
  
Iskia pauses to search the bodies, as she does, staff resting on the ground. She comes up with jewelry, bits of paper, a knife, all of which she tucks into her pack.  
  
"Are you going to do this every time we engage with them?" asks Morrigan, drumming her fingers against her arm. "This is a waste of time."  
  
"Yes," says the Inquisitor. She rises, straightens, sets two hands to the small of her back for a moment. "This is not an option. We're not losing much time over this. And I need to do it." She picks up her staff and slings it back into place, fingers flexing. Only then does she help up one of the soldiers, murmuring something encouraging probably. Whatever she has to say is not for Dorian to hear. It is enough for the soldier, though. "Get back to the healers," says the Inquisitor. "We'll clear things out ahead on this road."  
  
They forge onward like that, stopping every now and again to deal with pockets of templars. It is disturbingly routine at this point. Sometimes Blackwall bisects one, or Solas reduces them to shattered smears on the ground. When the path drops down into the river, Blackwall calls from the front, "Look alive, everyone. Trouble up ahead!"  
  
They scatter to the sides of the path, Iskia moving up to look at the ground ahead. A shattered bridge over a river, leading to the top of a waterfall. The bridge doesn't reach anymore; they're going to get wet. "Shit," Iskia says. "Are those Wardens with them? I thought we-- no, of course some of the corrupted ones got away. All right. Fine. Fine, we never get to kill people who actually _chose_ to do this sort of thing, do we? I'd love a nice contingent of Venatori right now. At least _most_ of those are..."  
  
"They _did_ choose to perform the blood rite which allowed Corypheus to control their minds," says Solas, moving up for a better view of his own. Dorian follows, but the group of Wardens is still far enough out that they're going to have to actually approach the river to attack.  
  
Iskia glares across the path. "We are _not_ having this argument here and now. But one day, we're going to have a long, long talk about how circumstances restrict options. Okay, go, now!" She doesn't wait, just dives ahead, lighting crackling from her staff. The first templar drops before anyone even sees her.  
  
"And you with the last word, of course," murmurs Solas, but he follows, making for the ruins of the bridge to pick off those on the fringes.  
  
When it's done, Blackwall moves to Iskia as she bends over the bodies and tells her, "Remember who they were. We'll avenge them."  
  
"Of course," she says, but her hands keep diving under the water, searching for-- something on one of the fallen Wardens. She spends too long searching, but gives it up with a shake of her head. "Let's just keep going. I think we can get to the bottom of the waterfall if we go down around that way." She points back up to the bank, makes a curving motion with her hand at something that might well be a path.  
  
They loop around and back down to the river, coming upon a group of Inquisition forces fighting more templars. It doesn't take much to assist them, with fire and power and even blades, but the gratitude on the soldiers' faces makes it worth it. When the Inquisitor throws raw power at the enemy, the wasted energy of her spells burns halo-bright around her, and she smiles toward the soldiers like an avenging goddess.  
  
The smile vanishes as they run past, knee-deep in the river. Her expression remains stony until they come upon a camp just off the river and Iskia calls for Blackwall to get clear. She throws her staff into the crook of her right arm, and thrusts her left hand skyward. Dorian flicks his staff, sending some stragglers running toward the centre of the camp with a wave of raw terror. Then as Iskia cries out, the air opens above the templars, blazing meteors driving down into them.  
  
Then arrows start flying towards them out of the trees. Solas and Morrigan are the first to react, slamming spells toward the source of the arrows. Dorian throws fire, and he catches a glimpse of one of their assailants. "Elves?" he calls, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds of combat. "What are elves doing here?"  
  
Iskia and Solas both weave fists of raw power and launch at the attacking elves. They both move down into the camp to get a better angle, standing almost shoulder to shoulder. Blackwall circles around for the attack, knocking the last into a burst of firebolts Dorian looses.  
  
"Well, whoever they are, they're not our friends," says Iskia as she does what she needs. "I suppose if this is the greeting they give us, we keep returning the favour." She hesitates over one of the bodies of the elves. For a second, two, Dorian sees her hands shake. But the moment is gone, and she bends, searching for something, anything to take. Morrigan rolls her eyes and strides a ways ahead, to where the path picks up again. If the Inquisitor notices, she says nothing.  
  
Blackwall steps to her, murmurs something Dorian can't make out. She sets her hand in his and rises. "Let's go," says Iskia, walking hand-in-hand with Blackwall to just behind Morrigan. Only then do they part.  
  
Dorian picks up the pace a little to catch up with her. "Are you all right?" he asks. It's useless asking her a thing like that right now, but she usually takes longer than this to get shaky. Maybe just from having Morrigan and Solas around? Better to ask than not; at this rate he wouldn't be surprised to see her just suddenly burst into flames.  
  
She cocks her head, glances at him. "Not even a quip?" she asks, and shifts her bag on her hip. "Do I look that badly off?" The Inquisitor runs a hand through her hair and smiles to him. Her shoulders are squarer when the hand drops.  
  
"With how tense things are between you and-- well, the both of them," says Dorian. "It is a little concerning. We haven't even gotten to this temple yet."  
  
"I'll manage," she says. "I think it's the weather, or something. I don't feel right. I haven't for a few days now." She shrugs, rubs her hands together. "Honestly, that's all it is, for once. It's kind of a relief."  
  
Dorian looks at her for a few moments me. He certainly wouldn't put it past her to lie right to his face. Especially about being fine. But if she's not going to let him do anything for her about it? "If you say so," he tells her. There's only so far concern can go, when it's not wanted.  
  
Iskia shrugs, waggles a hand in the air. "It's not as though we could stop right now even if I needed to. I'm really not made of glass, recent evidence to the contrary." She drops a hand to her bag, stroking over the outside. "Thank you for asking, though."  
  
"Anything to keep you from wallowing," Dorian says breezily, patting her on the arm. "If you pout too much, you'll get wrinkles."  
  
"Wallowing, really?" Iskia raises her eyebrows. But the corners of her mouth quirk upwards. "Why _do_ I keep you around, I wonder?"  
  
"Why, for my good looks and charm, of course," says Dorian. "Come, look, there's even more lovely river to run through. Just what you always wanted! Does the path pick up on the other side?"  
  
"It looks like it," says the Inquisitor. "I think I hear fighting over there." She pulls into a jog. Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose, but follows along.  
  


* * *

_**Noon**_  
_**Outside the Temple of Mythal**_  
  
A narrow passageway serves as an entrance into the temple complex, and all of them pause before it. "Well, here we are," says Dorian brightly. "Ancient elven temple, good as new."  
  
Iskia hesitates, turns around and looks back out at the Wilds. "Yes," she says. "Here we are." Her fingers reach out, brushing over the stone wall. For all the world she looks disinclined to ever move again.  
  
"Must you?" says Morrigan, taking a sharp step toward the Inquisitor. "Do you really think now is the best time to be moping about like a child?"  
  
Blackwall moves to stand between the two, but faces Iskia. "We do need to keep moving. If Corypheus is anywhere, it will be there," he says. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Just dizzy," Iskia says. " _Not_ moping, thank you, Morrigan. I think it's passed. I'll have a snack in a bit, when we're moving again. That might help." She lowers her hand from the wall, and takes a breath. "Everyone still here? Let's go."  
  
The passage is long, and dark, and narrow, which makes the sounds of fighting ahead echo around them. It has come to a pause, by the time they arrive, and the group creeps up quietly against the balcony to observe. Samson and Corypheus are both there, facing off against a small group of elves who guard a bridge that must lead to the temple proper. It has not been going well for them. What Dorian would not give for the time to look over the tilework, the statuery-- but no.  
  
"They still think to fight us, Master," says Samson, kicking aside the body of one of the fallen elves.  
  
Corypheus stalks towards the leader of the elves. "These are but remnants. They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows."  
  
Iskia and Dorian both look to Morrigan, who simply shrugs. Solas remains fixated on the magister, as does Blackwall. All five duck lower then, to avoid being seen.  
  
Corypheus draws closer to the bridge, and an archway guarding it lights up, thrums with power. He spares it a glance and no more. "Be honoured!" he calls, resuming his relentless advance. "Witness death at the hands of a new god!" Lighting focuses on him from around the arch, wracks his body with power. Still, he reaches out and seizes the foremost of the elves. He does nothing further: the archway glows a blinding blue and explodes in a deafening crack of stone.  
  
When the five of them can see once more, nothing further remains of Corypheus, and the elves that held the bridge lie scattered, dead. Samson urges his men forward, dashing across the bridge, barely visible through the mist and smoke.  
  
As one, the group advances, gingerly stepping over the bodies of fallen templars and Wardens.  
  
And then, a body rises. A broken Warden, face nearly gone from the force of the explosion. His body twists unnaturally, arching back. Blood spews forth from his mouth in a hideous fountain, and what stands is no Warden at all. It is Corypheus.  
  
"It cannot be," says Morrigan, for once undone, her eyes gone wide.  
  
Iskia does not pause to wonder further. "Across the bridge!" she barks, taking off at a dead run. "Now!"  
  
Corypheus screams, a wordless cry of rage, and from the sky, his dragon comes. It swoops towards them, drawing perilously close as they surge into the temple. It takes all of their effort to shut the mosaiced doors in time, and some golden power seals them against the wave of heat that nearly follows.  
  
This, then, is the Temple of Mythal. Morrigan steps ahead. "At last. Mythal's sanctum. Let us proceed before Corypheus appears."  
  
Solas seems... less than awed, but perhaps his travels in the Fade have inured him to such visions. For Dorian's part, the ruin is enough to make him gasp. Even after so many centuries, it gleams with light, and the vegetation has not wholly consumed the intricate artistry of the walls. Still, something must be addressed: "Hold on," says Dorian. "Corypheus mentioned a 'Well of Sorrows'. I thought he was here for an eluvian?"  
  
Morrigan looks away. "I... am uncertain of what he referred to," she admits.  
  
"You mean you don't know," says Iskia. She looks away from Morrigan, out into the vestibule. Blindly, one hand reaches for one of her bags. She comes up with a bun and some cheese. She nibbles it, like a hamster. "The eluvian might not even _be_ here."  
  
"Yes!" says Morrigan. "I was wrong. Does that _please_ you? Whatever the Well of Sorrows _might_ be, Corypheus seeks it and thus you must keep it from his grasp."  
  
Iskia grunts in the back of her throat, and keeps nibbling. "Let's find this Well before Corypheus' people do," she says, and begins striding ahead. Dorian cannot see her face. "I want to know how Corypheus returned to life," she says. "We saw him _die_."  
  
"And his life force passes on to any blighted creature: darkspawn, or Grey Warden," says Morrigan. Blackwall makes a discomfited noise at that one, and Iskia goes dead silent. She finishes the bun.  
  
"Then Corypheus cannot die," says Solas, trotting beside Dorian. "Destroy his body, and he will assume another."  
  
Iskia keeps moving up the entry hall. "We'll find a way to stop him, then. After we're done here."  
  
"'Tis strange," comments Morrigan. "Archdemons possess the same ability, and still the Grey Wardens are able to slay them. Yet Corypheus they locked away. Perhaps they knew he could do this... but not how."  
  
The Inquisitor grunts again, pausing right where the hallway opens up into the vestibule. "Are you certain it's the power of the blight that Corypheus is using to make himself immortal?" she asks, pressing a hand to her face.  
  
"Perhaps you forget," says Morrigan dryly. "I was _in_ Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. I have seen a true Archdemon rage. _How_ Corypheus gained the power to send his soul into blighted bodies... that is the real question."  
  
"Answering it might help us destroy Corypheus for good," says Iskia. Her head lowers, hand still pressed to it. Then the moment passes, and she straightens.  
  
Morrigan shrugs. "Perhaps," she says. "I would suggest first dealing with the Well. If Corypheus obtains it, any chance of success could be lost."  
  
"I can think of more than one thing at once," says Iskia, as she strides into the vestibule proper. "You say the Wardens... no, that is not a question I'll ask here." She shades her eyes against the bright sunlight. "Mythal was... worshipped here," a strange note of reverence tinges Iskia's voice at this. Dorian has never heard the like from her before.  
  
"So one assumes," says Morrigan. "What is a god but a being of immense power? The dread Old Gods were nothing more than dragons, after all. They rise as Archdemons, and they die. Perhaps Mythal was a powerful elf, a ruler among her kind. History often plays storyteller with facts."  
  
Now, Solas intercedes. "You admit lack of knowledge, and yet dismiss her so readily?" Well, of course he would be less than thrilled to hear someone say such a thing. Dorian... well, Dorian doesn't know what to think on the subject. So he keeps his mouth quite shut, and glances to Blackwall instead. And there is a man who looks predictably uncomfortable with this line of talk at all.  
  
"I do not dismiss her," Morrigan says, shrugging. "I question her supposed divinity. One need not be a god to have value. Truthfully, I am uncertain Mythal was even a single entity. The accounts are... varied."  
  
They slowly circle a monument at the centre of the vestibule, marked with intricate floor panels. "And what is divinity, exactly?" says Iskia. "Are you in any better position than I to be the arbiter of what is or is not divine? As you say: a god is a being of immense power. What matter the source? What matter its nature? The _perception_ , the illusion is truth. One is what one's followers choose to make of them. If that be a god? Then so it may be. I am curious about these accounts of Mythal you have heard, though. Tales vary from clan to clan."  
  
Dorian frowns faintly to himself. Nothing she's saying is _wrong_ , exactly, but he wonders at some of the implications.  
  
"In most stories, Mythal rights wrongs while exercising motherly kindness," says Morrigan, following close behind Iskia. "'Let fly your voice to Mythal, deliverer of justice, protector of sun and earth alike'. Other paint her as dark, vengeful. Pray to Mythal, and she would smite your enemies, leaving them in agony."  
  
"More Dalish tales, I assume," says Solas, waving it off with a sharp gesture.  
  
"If you know more than that, Solas," Iskia says, past the monument and up a flight of stairs. "Do speak. That _is_ why you are here."  
  
"The _oldest_ accounts say Mythal was both of these, and neither. She was the Mother, protective and fierce. That is all I will say. this is not a place to stir up old stories."  
  
"Is it not?" murmurs Iskia. "But even the Dalish know her for the mother of all things."  
  
"Whatever the truth," says Morrigan, "all accounts of Mythal end the same: exiled to the Beyond with her bretheren. Tricked, by the Dread Wolf, as all the elven gods were said to be: trapped in a land beyond the Fade."  
  
"Why we fell from grace, and our gods did not save us," says Iskia with a breath. "Or so I was always told."  
  
"Or perhaps they were simply rulers slain by Tevinter. Who can say?" Morrigan offers a shrug but little else. Still, Iskia frowns at that response.  Of course she would be dissatisfied with such a notion. Who can blame her?  
  
Iskia just shakes her head, letting out a breath. She keeps searching about the upper level, leading them all to a large stone statue of a wolf. She pauses, lingering over it with a frown on her lips.  
  
"Why would _this_ be here?" says Morrigan. "Something that depicts Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf? Setting a Fen'Harel statue in Mythal's greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry."  
  
"I suspect neither case is quite so simple as you make of it," says Iskia, turning away. "My clan placed such statues-- smaller ones, of course-- to ward off spirits. It could easily be the same here. And I should not need to remind you that there was a time that _predates_ this betrayal. One must be allies first for that. Else it is simply enmity."  
  
"For all your... knowledge, Lady Morrigan," says Solas, all cool cordiality, "you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other."  
  
Dorian merely inspects a mosaic, doing his best to ignore the sniping as it grows pettier. Morrigan, however, rises to the bait. "Pray tell, what meaning does our _elven expert_ sense lurking behind this?"  
  
"None we can discern by _staring_ at it."  
  
"You look just about ready to kiss when you argue," says Iskia, moving back to a doorway at the top of the stairways. It must lead further on in. Certainly a more productive line of thought than imagining _those_ two kissing.  
  
"'Tis time we pressed forward," says Morrigan.  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"Well, the way further is sealed," Iskia says, after trying the doorway to no avail.  
  
Morrigan shrugs and says, "Corypheus' lackies managed to open it. Perhaps the altar holds a clue,"  
  
Iskia simply turns, wordlessly, and descends the stairs. Dorian catches a glimpse of her face as she passes, and there is something odd there. Abstracted, yes, thoughtful, certainly. But the look in her eyes is somehow more far-off than even that. If she even notices him as she passes him by, it doesn't register.  
  
The wide floor-tile lights beneath her as she stands upon the dais. Morrigan moves to stand beside her, and says, "It appears the temple's magics are still strong."  
  
Iskia leans forward, pushing some leaves from one of the pillars that centres the dais. "Ancient elven. I can't make out much. Solas?"  
  
He approaches, and looks for himself. He recites, drawing his fingers over the lettering, "'Atish'all Vir Abelasan'. It means: 'enter the path of the Well of Sorrows'."  
  
Morrigan continues looking. "There is something about knowledge. Respectful, or pure. Shiven... shivennen... 'tis all I can translate. That it mentions the Well is a good omen."  
  
Iskia gives Morrigan a long, long look, before she says at last, "I suppose it is better than nothing."  
  
"Supplicants to Mythal would have first paid obeisance here. Following their path may aid entry," notes Morrigan.  
  
"I see what must be done," says Iskia. Her voice drifts, dreamlike: it sends a shiver down Dorian's spine. "All of you, stand off." The others clear away, and the Inquisitor closes her eyes, walking a sure-footed ring over the tiles set around the altar. Her arms extended halfway, she walks the path blind, only opening her eyes when she steps away. The light flares brightly, and a sound from the door rings out.  
  
She moves back up the stairs with purpose, where Dorian would rather like to get a closer look at things here. But it's not as though they can delay that much. Perhaps they'll return here later... he follows through the door.  
  
"Those elves lay an impressive ambush," says Blackwall from behind. "I wonder where they are."  
  
Samson and his templars are still within the next chamber, on a mezzanine: something explodes before him, shattering stone. "Hold them off!" he barks, and jumps into the hole he'd just opened up. His archers emerge from around the fringes of the room. Their faces gleam red in the light as they raise their bows.  
  
Iskia outright dives behind a pillar; Dorian makes a more conventional break for it. Blackwall runs one that comes too close right through, sending a spray of blood onto the floor when he jerks his sword free. The rest goes predictably poorly for the templars; they're as good as exploded by the time they're dead, one falling into the large pool of water that dominates the chamber. The Inquisitor's hands twitch toward the bodies, but she stops them, and starts running for the hole the templars jumped through. "Come on," she says.  
  
They're halfway there when Morrigan stops short and looks around. "Hold! A moment," she says, throwing up a hand to stop Iskia. The group pulls up short, and Iskia turns to face her, one foot tapping against the ground. "While they rush ahead," Morrigan continues, and gestures around herself, " _this_ leads to our true destination. We should walk the petitioner's path, as before."  
  
When Iskia turns her head over her shoulder to look at the others, it's Blackwall who says, "You've an army out there dying, my Lady. We're wasting time fiddling with this... this. If jumping down will get us out faster, we should do it." But the way he looks at her, there's something else there. Worry, probably. Dorian feels very badly for him for a moment, swept up in the wake of this house fire of a woman as he is. But there's nothing he can do for that.  
  
Dorian says instead, "Just a thought: maybe rushing through this place like a mad bull isn't the best plan?" Whatever the Elven gods were or weren't, there's still power in this place. The history alone is worth respecting. And better to go carefully than leaping in headlong like a fool. No need to belabour the point though; of course Iskia will want to do things properly, whatever properly is. He's not quite sure he follows her relationship to her gods, but they definitively _are_ her gods, he knows that much.  
  
"You see the urgency," says Morrigan, turning right to the Inquisitor. "We _cannot_ find the Well of Sorrows unprepared."  
  
Probably the wrong thing to say to her. Iskia folds her arms across her chest, frowning faintly. "You seem very eager," she notes, locking her gaze on Morrigan's. Still. There's being cautious, and then there's this.  
  
Morrigan rolls her eyes at Iskia. "Are we not all eager to stop Corypehus from achieving his mad plan?"  
  
"It sounds like what _you_ want is that well," says the Inquisitor. She glowers at Morrigan, nails tapping against her upper arms. Maker, please let them just settle this so they can keep going. Blackwall _is_ right in that they don't exactly have all day here.  
  
Morrigan waves Iskia off to the side; she follows, clearly reluctantly. Dorian glances after them, tilting his head to try and catch a hint of what they're saying. He catches not a word, but Iskia makes some sharp gestures as the conversation grows heated. The exasperation is visible on Morrigan even from this far away. Solas looks after them with a concentrated frown on his face. Perhaps he can hear more than Dorian can.  
  
Instead, Dorian takes the moment to step over to Blackwall, who has his eyes trained on Iskia's back. "She'll be fine," says Dorian. And he's sure that's true, so long as one's definition of fine is sufficiently liberal. But that, at least, is normal for her. Better if everyone isn't on edge as they try to find the Well.  
  
"She will," says Blackwall, then sighs. "But I wish I knew what was wrong. This place is strange. I suppose it would be stranger for her, but the less time we spend here, the better. For everyone." He watches her a little longer, then runs a hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face. "We should just go."  
  
"They're her gods," says Dorian. "Whatever that means to her or doesn't... is she ever going to get this chance again? She knows the urgency. I don't think she'll dawdle." Dorian shrugs, then glances back to her. She's arguing with Morrigan now, absolutely.  
  
"You're right," says Blackwall, but his shoulders lift into a helpless sort of shrug. "Still... forget it. You're right. She'll be fine." He doesn't say if _he'll_ be fine, of course. But Dorian didn't and doesn't ask.  
  
Kaffas. Now's not the time and it's none of his business. Not really. But she is his friend, and it feels wrong to let her... what even _is_ going on here? That's the problem, isn't it? He isn't sure what the problem actually _is_ , and there's not much time at all.  
  
Ah. She's breaking off from Morrigan now, and... yes, the bodies. Of course. He still isn't sure why she has this need with them, but he's seen her pass them over when urgency demanded, and that _does_ make her jittery. But she does whatever she requires, and ends up near one of the great mosaics that line the hall.  
  
She looks up at it for a long moment, her back to everyone, but she calls out, "Solas. Morrigan. Come here, would you? I'm not sure of the old style. This is... Falon'Din, yes?"  
  
The whole lot of them walk to look at the mosaic and look up at it. Morrigan nods, and clarifies for Dorian and Blackwall, "Overseer of funerals, and guide to the elven dead. I have heard the Dalish invoke him on their deathbed, or before quests from which they expect no return."  
  
"My clan's hunters asked for his blessing when we fought bandits," Iskia avers, but she still sounds as though she's speaking from a hundred miles away. She looks up at the mosaic as if trapped in a spider's web. "Our Keeper taught them the prayers."  
  
"I do not believe they sing songs about Falon'Din's vanity," says Solas dryly. The look on his face is for once perfectly scrutable: there is a dry, distant contempt there.  
  
"Do you know any legends?" Iskia asks, still mired in the image. Her fingers flex at her sides, and she shudders, once, faintly.  
  
"It is said Falon'Din's appetite for adulation was so great, he began wars to amass more worshippers," Solas tells her. "The blood of those who wouldn't bow low filled lakes as wide as oceans. Mythal rallied the gods, once the shadow of Falon'Din's hunger stretched across her own people. It was almost too late. Falon'Din only surrendered when his bretheren bloodied him in his own temple." Iskia nods faintly at every pause for breath Solas takes, but she hardly seems to notice she's doing it.  
  
"Were all the gods so terrifying to the ancient elves?" she wonders aloud, her shoulders shifting as if shaking something off. She squares them, straightens.  
  
"Yes," says Solas. "I believe they were."  
  
One hand rises to her forehead, and she murmurs, "I had a dream once... no. No, what was it? Maker's breath, my head hurts. Let's go."  
  
Whatever it was that bothered her about the mosaic, she seems more normal, after that. Tightly-wound, of course, but under control. She walks the paths laid out with sharp efficiency: circling them, frowning, then unerringly treading the required paths. She lingers less over the minutiae of architecture, but asks the odd question here and there, not stopping while Solas or Morrigan answer them. Dorian takes some rubbings of a few of the smaller pieces in the few moments he has.  
  


* * *

_**Midafternoon**_  
_**The Well of Sorrows**_  
  
Iskia's intensity is what carries Dorian through what comes after, with the elves. Left to his own, he would have been dumbstruck by the revelations casually dropped by the guardians of the inner temple. He could have taken days to reel from the very thought that the elves destroyed themselves. That Tevinter had merely swooped in to pick up the carrion. But she doesn't stop for even a second, instead deftly gets them to stand down and secures an escort.  
  
Dorian's too lost in thought to even notice how she takes, perhaps, a bit too long following their escort, darting from mosaic to mosaic. He knows the truth now, but what is there he can do with it? Tevinter _should_ know. But how would they react to such news? How likely is it they would even believe him? Damn it all. Damn. He needs more _time_ to go over this. Time he doesn't have.  
  
The escort stops behind them at some point. Iskia tilts her head toward a set of double doors at the far end of the chamber, and the ancient elf nods. "Let's go, then," says the Inquisitor, squaring her shoulders.  
  
Beyond the doors is... something else entirely. Like the Wilds outside, but bright and tamed. A long, long set of stairs descends through this garden, and there, on the other side: what can only be this Well of Sorrows. No stairs as far as Dorian can see, but there must be a way up.  
  
"Maker's balls," says Blackwall, in nothing less than awe. They all stop dead at the railing, just staring.  
  
"How has such magic lasted?" Dorian says, snapped out of his own thoughts at last. This-- this is incredible.  
  
Behind him, Solas breathes, "So Mythal endures."  
  
But the templars have gotten there ahead of them, and they cannot tarry here. The sounds of fighting reach even this high up. Samson is barking orders, but Dorian can't quite make out what they're saying. They pick up into a run. But they arrive too late to save the elves. There is Samson, the Red Templars' general, turning back to face his men. "Men". Most of them are halfway gone to lyrium already, or more. Are they even capable of understanding things?  
  
"You tough bastards," he says in a slovenly Marcher accent, but there's real admiration there. "A day's march, hours of fighting, and still fierce as dragons. Chantry never knew what it was throwing away."  
  
But one of them still seems to have enough of a mind left, pointing past him. "Samson! Ser, watch out!"  
  
The whole group stops short about ten feet ahead of Samson and his templars. Samson turns, glowering. There is the vaunted armour they've gone to such efforts to learn how to disable. Hopefully Dagna's rune will work.  
  
"Inquisitor," Samson says, upper lip curling back into some sort of a sneer. "You and those elf-things don't know when to stop. You've hunted us half across Thedas. I should've guessed you'd follow us into this hole." He shakes his head, flexing his hands.  
  
Dorian glances to Iskia. She's casually sorting through her packs. Entirely offhandly, she says, "I spoke with your Tranquil friend, Maddox. Do you know, he sacrificed himself for your cause." She says it like she isn't even paying attention to him, and maybe she's not. But she does find whatever it is she's looking for, and turns to face the fallen templar, one hand buried in a bag.  
  
The words get through, at least for a moment. "I told him not to..." says Samson, then he shakes his head, shakes it off. Dorian's seen that motion a thousand times before on Iskia. She won't deflect a fight that way, then. "He died as one of us, then. One of the faithful." Back straight, shoulders square, Samson says, with a strange sort of pride, "Corypheus chose me twice. First as his general, and now as the Vessel for the Well of Sorrows. Do you know what's inside the Well? Wisdom. The kind of wisdom that can scour a world." He turns, looking up to the Well, just as foiled as they are by the lack of any visible means of approach. "I give it to Corypheus, and he can walk into the Fade without your precious Anchor."  
  
When Samson speaks of wisdom, Iskia gets a look in her eyes that Dorian's only seen when she looks at Blackwall. It makes Dorian's hair stand on end. "A 'Vessel'?" Iskia says, head tilting toward Samson. "And what, pray, do you mean by that?"  
  
"What else empties a well?" says Samson. "I'll carry its power to Corypheus. One more task entrusted to me. Being force-fed Chantry lyrium was good for something. This armour makes me a living fortress-- mind and body, I won't forget a word of the Well's knowledge. Corypheus will be unstoppable."  
  
Iskia cocks her head. "You _do_ know that once Corypheus is that powerful, you and your soldiers will just slow him down. He'll cast you aside." A smile crosses her lips, sharp and cruel. "I suppose you must be used to that by now."  
  
Samson whirls, stalks a few steps toward the group. "You _dare_ say that to my face? After you butchered my men? You're no match for Corypheus. Even _if_ you drink from the Well, you'll never master its wisdom as he could." He throws his arms wide, and the lyrium-light splays through his armour. " _This_ is the strength the Chantry tried to bind. But it's a new world now. With a new god." He points, and bids, "So. Inquisitor. How will this go?"  
  
Iskia draws her hand free, clutching the rune that they'd gone to such efforts to create. "Power's all well and good," she says, and drops it to the tiles. She lifts her boot, smashes the rune under her heel. "Until it's taken away."  
  
Samson's good at holding it back, but the cry he makes as the power that flows through his armour shatters is outright agonized. It drives him straight to his knees, and he gasps, "What did you do! _What did you do_?" His voice comes out like he's being crushed in a vice. "My armour. It's gone. The lyrium-- I _need_ it!" He rights himself enough to make the order: "Kill them all!"  
  
Iskia's order is expected, and Dorian's already working backward when she yells, "Get clear!" and thrusts her hand upwards. The air opens up, fire and meteors driving into the templars before they can group properly. It gives him and Solas time enough to get their staves out, and Blackwall to ready his shield. Dorian douses the closest of the templars in raw fire, and Solas drives him back into the brunt of Iskia's fiery rain.  
  
One of the templars manages to get clear of it, and Blackwall starts hacking with his sword, trying to get through the lyrium that's half the templar's skin now. Eventually, he falls, while the other of Samson's men succumbs to Iskia's assault from the sky. But that still leaves Samson, and even with his armour flaking away in pieces now, that's not enough to stop him.  
  
No, he heads right for Iskia, swinging his sword wildly toward her. She moves back to try and dodge, slamming a fist of stone right into him, barely making him stumble. He clips her with his sword, right as she dives aside. She scrabbles for a potion as Blackwall intercedes, slamming his shield into the templar. When Iskia's back on her feet, she manages to send power flaring at him, assaulting him at all sides.  
  
Dorian too does what he can, weaving fire and more malefic forces in deft harmony, but the man barely seems human. He works his greatsword like it weighs nothing at all, but he does, eventually, start slowing down. His blows grow all the more frantic. "Those were _my men_!" he yells, knocking the Inquisitor hard to the ground once more. Solas manages to drive him away from her with another flying fist, enough time for Blackwall to slam the lip of his shield up into Samson's chin.  
  
That's enough to finally drop him. He's still conscious, somehow, but there's no fight left in him. "Not the well, you wretch," he says heavily. "You can't take it from Corypheus. You mustn't..." He tries to get up, but his arms give up, and he seems to have finally passed out.  
  
"Still breathing after all that..." says Blackwall, shaking his head. "Impressive."  
  
"So it is," says Iskia, shakily getting back to her feet. She downs another potion, tries to catch her breath. "We'll bring him back to Skyhold and deal with him there."  
  
But with the templars out of the way, Abelas emerges from wherever he'd concealed himself, the bird-shape of Morrigan flapping overhead. She starts in for the well, needing no path. Abelas gives chase, stairs forming ahead of him. Iskia runs hard behind, Dorian and the others following close.  
  
Morrigan lands just ahead of Abelas, shifting back into her human form, and everyone pulls up short. "You heard his parting words, Inquisitor," she says. "The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows!"  
  
Abelas stands aside, as Iskia stalks towards Morrigan. "So the sanctum is despoiled at last," he says acidly, looking hard at Morrigan. But while Abelas looks at Morrigan, the Inquisitor looks past them, toward the great pool of water before them. Dorian glances to her, and the look in her eyes... is she even _seeing_ anything?  
  
"You would have destroyed the well yourself, given the chance," says Morrigan to Abelas. If she even notices Iskia's fixed stare, she doesn't mention. _Solas_ certainly notices, though, and frowns faintly as he watches her. Blackwall stays back, just a few steps, closest to the stairs of any of them.  
  
Abelas raises his hand, waves it right toward Morrigan. "To keep it from _your_ grasping fingers. Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving."  
  
"Fool!" barks Morrigan. "You'd let your people's legacy rot in the shadows!"  
  
"Silence, Morrigan," Iskia's voice drifts unfettered through the air. It sounds more like Cole's voice than the Inquisitor's.  
  
"You cannot honestly--"  
  
"Do not make me repeat myself." Iskia slowly turns her head to face Morrigan. Her eyes are big as saucers, only a faint golden ring around her too-wide pupils. Dorian starts to step forward, but Blackwall, of all people, puts his hand on his wrist, holding him back. Dorian glances to him, sees a resigned fear there. Like an old and well-worn shoe. But this is bad, even for her.  
  
Morrigan speaks again, more calmly this time. "The well clearly offers power, Inquisitor," she says, reaching for a more likely angle. "If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?"  
  
"Do you even know what you ask?" says Abelas. He looks down to the well, the Inquisitor's gaze following his. "As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on... through this." He turns away, and looks not to Morrigan, but to Iskia. "All that we were. All that we knew. It would be lost forever."  
  
Iskia raises her arms, and lets them fall like pollen on the wind. "Your fears have already come to pass. Do not deceive yourself: it _is_ lost. Whatever my people are, it is as you say: they are not yours. A new tree, grown from the seed of the old. Nothing else remains."  
  
Abelas looks to Iskia for a moment more. Perhaps he sees something in her vacant eyes, but he does not speak of it. "It is."  
  
"Why remain?" exhorts Morrigan. "Why perform a duty without purpose?"  
  
"You have shown respect to Mythal," says Abelas, still ignoring Morrigan. Iskia rubs the faint marks traced out on her cheekbones as the ancient elf speaks. "And there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny. Is that your desire? To partake of the Vir'Abelesan as best you can, to fight your enemy?"  
  
"Not unpermitted."  
  
Dorian dares another glance to Solas. He only has eyes for the Inquisitor, and he watches her with an interest Dorian has never seen before. His stance is tense, coiled like a too-tight spring, ready to burst.  
  
"One does not obtain _permission_ ," says Abelas. "One obtains the right." He turns his back to the well, and moves to the stairs. "The Vir'Abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend." He turns back to face her. "Brave it if you must, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal."  
  
"Bound!" says Morrigan, as she makes a dismissive gesture. "To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?"  
  
"Bound," Abelas repeats. "As _we_ are bound. The choice is yours."  
  
"Does she still..." Iskia begins, rubbing the markings on her face again. She shakes her head, hard, and closes her eyes tight. In her normal voice, she asks, "Is there anything left of her in this world? Of _her_? Is it at all possible?"  
  
"Anything is possible."  
  
Morrigan just sighs. "Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen'Harel and banished to the Beyond. I thought you said you _knew_ these things, Inquisitor?"  
  
"'Elven' legend is wrong," says Abelas. Dorian could swear he lets out a snort in there, too. "The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder."  
  
"Murder?" Morrigan's eyebrows raise high. "I- I said nothing of--"  
  
"She was slain, if a god truly can be," says Abelas. His voice goes sharp as he explains. "Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple." Iskia's fingers move to her temples as Abelas speaks, and she rests her head against them faintly. Still, he continues. "Yet the Vir'Abelesan remains. As do we. That is something."  
  
Iskia wets her lips, presses them together. Slowly, slowly she lifts her head. "You're leaving."  
  
"Our duty ends," he says. "Why remain?"  
  
Now Dorian cannot hold his peace any longer. "The Imperium went to great lengths to expunge elven history. You might be the last to know the truth."  
  
Only now does Abelas deign to notice Dorian. "Would the 'elves' of your lands listen to the truth?"  
  
Dorian just shrugs. "They might. Would it hurt to try?"  
  
"It very well may, shemlen, yes," says Abelas, lips pulling into something very close to an ironic smirk. It isn't a bad look on him, not at all. But then he turns away and back to Iskia, all seriousness again. "It may be that only uthenera awaits us. The blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken. If fate is kind."  
  
Iskia cocks her head to one side. "And just like that, you leave? After all these years?"  
  
Abelas lifts his hands. "After you drink, nothing remains to hold us."  
  
Then Solas looks directly to Abelas at last. "Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas," he says. The sentinel gives Solas a long look, then simply nods.  
  
He turns and walks away, descending the stairs. He never once looks back.  
  
"His name," Solas says, glancing to Dorian and Blackwall. Of course neither the Inquisitor nor Morrigan need the translation. "Abelas means sorrow. I said... I hoped he finds a new name."  
  
Iskia bows her head briefly to Solas, then turns with Morrigan to face the well-- and the great mirror that lies just past it. "You'll note the intact eluvian," says Morrigan dryly. "I was correct on _that_ count, at least."  
  
"Do you think Corypheus could still use it to travel the Fade?" Iskia asks, then rubs her forehead once more.  
  
"You recall when I took you through my Eluvian, that I said each requires a key?" Morrigan turns more to face Iskia now. She waves to the pool of water before them. "The well _is_ the key. Take its power, and Mythal's last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass. I did not expect the Well to feel so... hungry." She looks almost ready to dive in right there.  
  
"Stand aside, Morrigan," says Iskia, and her voice is edgeless. It is smoke on the air. She throws an arm out, straight to the side as if to hold Morrigan back, but she does not look at all where she places her arm. Dorian looks to Blackwall once more. He just shakes his head. Well, he would know better than anyone how to deal with the Inquisitor's moods, but she too looks ready to go for a swim.  
  
"I am _willing_ to pay the price the Well demands," says Morrigan, turning to fully face the Inquisitor. "I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service."  
  
"Or more likely to your own ends," says Solas, pressing forward.  
  
"What would you know of my 'ends', elf?"  
  
Solas makes a sharp gesture at her. "You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast," he snaps. And Iskia is not? Dorian has pored over enough texts with her by now to see the light in her eyes when they start crafting some new theory. And the way she looks now... "You cannot be trusted."  
  
Morrigan waves Solas off, looks back to Iskia. She pleads with her now. "Of those present, I _alone_ have the training to make use of this. Let me drink, Inquisitor."  
  
Iskia's eyes refocus, and her lips press into a flat line. "You alone. This is _my_ heritage. This is _my_..."  
  
"I have studied the _oldest_ lore. I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream! You have been honest about how little you know of the eluvians. This goes far deeper than anything you might ever have touched! Can you _honestly_ tell me there is anyone better suited?"  
  
Iskia closes her eyes and she laughs. Laughs like Dorian has never heard before. She does not laugh at Morrigan; it is not cruel, and it does not mock. This is-- something else. If Andraste had laughed on her way to the pyre, this is how she would have laughed. The Inquisitor opens her eyes and her head leans back. She looks _down_ at Morrigan, even though they're the same height. "I am."  
  
The Inquisitor is _mad_. Honestly, Dorian had wondered before. But now? Now he is sure. Morrigan grows more desperate. "You _lead_ the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take. I have the best chance of making use of the Well... for everyone. Let me drink."  
  
"You know the price."  
  
"Bound to the will of a dead god?" Morrigan gets at least some of her confidence back. "It seems an empty warning. Perhaps a compulsion yet remains. Who can say otherwise? I do not fear it, even so."  
  
Iskia's lips grow thin, tight, press into a smile. "If it is between you and no one, then there is Abelas' plan to destroy it."  
  
"And what happens when Corypheus comes for you again?" Morrigan's got her feet now, and Dorian finds himself desperately hoping she persuades the Inquisitor. He has few enough friends that he would not see this one lost to herself, to the magics of the Well. "He is _immortal_. The wisdom of the Well may include a way to destroy him. Give me this, and I fight at your side. I shall _be_ your sword."  
  
"It is not just knowledge within the Well," says the Inquisitor. "Look at it. Listen to it. It is their _will_."  
  
"How would _you_ know such a thing?"  
  
Iskia waves sharply to the well. "Abelas himself told us this. The will of the priests puts anyone who drinks under a compulsion, a geas. Can you not _feel_ it? Are you so _blind_? It is so _thick_ here, it is an _assault_ \-- can't you feel it? Can't _any_ of you feel it?"  
  
Morrigan just looks away, down to the Well. "That... _would_ match the legends, but it does not tell us what the geas entails. _I_ would still use the Well, but you are right. We must be cautious."  
  
"What about the rest of you," Iskia asks, raising her hands to grind the heels of her palms into her eyes. Her fingers tremble visibly as they dig into her hairline. "Tell me what you think."  
  
Solas speaks first. "She is right about only one thing: we _should_ take the power that lies in that Well. Still, are you certain that you are willing to bind _yourself_?"  
  
"It all seems ghoulish," says Dorian. Play it light and airy. "Let Morrigan use it, if she wants so much." She won't listen. Dorian _knows_ she won't listen. But he has to _try_ , in his way.  
  
Blackwall finally locks eyes with her. "I won't lose you," he is pleading now. "Let the witch use the well."  
  
The look the two of them share... Dorian expects her to say something to him. Anything. An apology, perhaps. But she bows her head once to him, and he just gives her a rueful smile. They don't need to say anything to each other.  
  
"Enough deliberation," Morrigan says. "Give me your decision." As if it has not already been made.  
  
"I swore myself to Mythal in the hopes she would protect me," Iskia says, terribly softly. "I _swore_ , and I was marked out for her. She has never done so. And yet I remain hers." She falls silent, for a long, long moment. All at once, her shoulders slump, and her head drops forward, chin pressing to her chest. "Very well. I will undertake the second binding." she says. "I surrender. Dorian, hold my coat."  
  
As she undoes it, Morrigan says sharply, "So you will take what little knowledge you can understand, and let the rest go to waste?"  
  
Iskia tugs her coat off, sets her bags on the ground. Trapped, Dorian steps up to take hold of the coat and her staff. She says, "Who is to say it will go to waste?"  
  
"I do!" says Morrigan. But she sighs afterward. "Perhaps it is better this way. Do as you will with the Well of Sorrows, Inquisitor. But be careful."  
  
The Inquisitor says nothing further. Blackwall steps close behind her, drifts his fingers over the small of her back. She reaches to catch them for a moment, holding his hand tight for a split second. Then she descends. Wisps of light rise to chase her hands as she moves to the centre of the pool, water only up to her hips. She smiles, trailing her fingers in the water. She cups a handful of water, and without hesitation, raises it to her lips--  
  
\-- then cries out with something beyond agony. The water of the Well swells up and out, spraying all four of them where they stand. Dorian tries to shield his eyes, but it does little good. Light flares upward, sending dark spots scatting across his vision. He doesn't know how long it is until he can see again, but when he recovers, he sees Iskia, flat on her back in the middle of the now-dry Well.  
  
Blackwall gets to her first, of course. On his knees beside her, lightly patting her cheek. She's out like a snuffed candle, but still he begs. "My lady, oh, Maker, let her keep breathing," over and over again. He finds her hand and squeezes it tight.  
  
Her eyes open all at once, and she coughs, hard, giving up more water than Dorian ever would have believed she could hold. She pushes herself hard up to her feet, waving off Blackwall's hand up.  
  
"How... do you feel?" asks Solas.  
  
The Inquisitor takes her coat back from Dorian, leaves it hanging open, and slings her staff back in place. He scuttles for her other bags when she waves, weakly, at them. "We're, _I_ , I am fine. I'm fine."  
  
Far behind them, a creaking rings out. They all turn: the door do the sanctuary is open, and there is Corypheus, striding inside. He _rises_ into the air, soaring toward the group.  
  
"The eluvian!" says Morrigan, pointing back to the mirror, and she starts running.  
  
"Go!" barks Iskia. She lets the others take the lead, urging everyone through. Dorian dashes ahead, followed a split second later by the Inquisitor.  
  


* * *

_**Skyhold**_  
_**Midafternoon**_  
  
They feel wings brush their cheeks as they emerge in Skyhold, last to arrive. No. _No_. _She_ feels wings. The feeling is on _her_ cheeks. _She_ is last to arrive. She will assert herself. She must! They close in on her, but she will remain whole. She is a single being. And she is more powerful than this.  
  
"It is done." Who says that? Does it come from within or without? Iskia turns, watches the witch-- yes, focus on the witch, _hate_ the witch, use it to focus herself into a diamond point. The witch seals the eluvian behind them. Iskia could have done that, they know now. She _sees how it is done_ , she is told how it is done.  
  
Iskia whirls, and the world keeps spinning even after their head stops moving. "Someone-- Dorian, Solas," she says. The words come from a place they cannot touch. "Run to the rookery. W--e must send word we've arrived." Her tongue still fights the battle for her, but that is not the 'we' she fears. That 'we' is safe.  
  
She is feeling more than she is seeing. Things happen in front of her but they cannot make sense of it yet. Hands rest on _her_ hips. Yes, only hers. "My Lady," sings the voice of fear. No. No, she knows that voice. The Well will not steal Blackwall from her. Her hands drop, and she rests her exposed fingertips against his mailed hands. She fans out her fingers, taking hold of the soul of all remaining good in this world. "My Lady, are you--?" He will not ask if she is all right. Because he knows she is not. This is something she has always known. This is something she has always been able to tell. This is not the Well. The wills she contains know nothing of him, this human man with his infinite capacity to _do better_. To believe there is good _within her_.  
  
"It's disorienting," she says. Yes, words are easier now. Still, she should be vigilant, at least until she grows used to the new situation. She will not lose herself to carelessness. "I will... this will take time to adjust. The feeling is... not what I expected. I will have what knowledge we need, but first, I." Her knees feel ready to buckle, but she forces them to support her still. But she never has long when this happens. "First, I am going upstairs." Almost like normal now. The words are still deliberate. But she doesn't need to fight to think them. She has this. By force, when subtlety is needed, but there's time to work this through the right way yet. She is, for now, a singular entity. "I won't need help getting there. But, Blackwall, please join me as soon as you can. Don't rush. Please, do not rush. But as soon as you can. I will need you. Everyone else... I'll see you when I can."  
  
Iskia pats the hands on her hips, then steps away from their support. One foot in front of the other. She isn't sure if it's hard because she's pushing herself, or because it's hard to move with one will as all of them war for supremacy of her. She strides through the garden, not caring for anything or anyone in her way. She must be a mess; soaked from the Well, coat hanging open, hair in horrific disarray. Probably blood caked on her somewhere.  
  
No one stands in her way. No one even tries. She makes it through the great hall. Just the stairs left now. Maker, whose idiot notion was it to put her bedroom at the top of a tower? Right. Hers. Thoughts coming easier all the time. They will subdue the voices of the Well. They will endure this. She lifts one foot, then the other, negotiating the steps so deliberately. They will not be defeated by stairs.  
  
They have no sense of _time_ now. How long does it take before they get to the top? They don't know. They can't tell. Time is _hard_ now. How can she tell when it passes when it has been still for so long? They scrabble their hands at the final door. It is like they belong to someone else. But someone's blind familiarity gets them through and up the stairs. Whose? What is this rebellion within, that forces their hand one direction when they mean to go another?  
  
They trip on the final step, feet tangling around each other. Intentional, it must be intentional. Who is fighting them? What is driving this anger? They fall, they fall, they fall--  
  
She catches herself on the railing, growling under her breath. "I will _not_ ," she says to her empty bedroom. Back to her feet, too much force to every motion. An accommodation must be achieved. This will not do. Just a little further. Her bags thump to the ground as she pushes toward her bed, shoving the air aside like molasses. She overshoots, slams her hands against herself as she tries to reach for her coat. The second try she gets it, and pulls it off. Her staff hits the ground along with it. They cannot deal with boots, with buttons right now. They leave them be. This body is at its limit. Strange. It should be capable of more. Is it because of them? Or is there something else? The rebel force within succumbs, for a second, and they move united for the bed.  
  
Together, they stand beside it, and she crumples.  
  


* * *

_**Skyhold**_  
_**Later**_  
  
Blackwall is lost here. Give him a foe to stare down, an enemy, a battlefield. He can protect her there. He knows what to _do_ there. This? She lays flat on her back, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Sometimes her eyes open wide and she says nothing, sees nothing so far as he can tell. Mostly, he prays. He prays because he doesn't know what else he _can_ do.  
  
She may have sworn that she'd never stop scaring him, but this is far worse than he'd ever expected. He grips Iskia's hand tightly, pressing his lips to it, begging Andraste to see her through this. But would Andraste save a knowledge-mad elf? Will it even be _her_ who awakens from her-- sleep? He doesn't know. If this is how he loses her, then what will he _do_? The Wardens, surely, but to lose the fire in her eyes? The world would be dulled.  
  
Dorian comes up, often enough that Blackwall can tell he's at least as nervous. He sits on the couch, fidgeting silently. Blackwall would rather he go, but he won't ask. Dorian cares too much about her.  
  
"Is she... all right?" he asks, on the morning of the third day. "I mean... otherwise."  
  
"I don't know," Blackwall says, squeezing Iskia's limp hand. "No, she's not. She hardly sleeps. Doesn't eat near as much as she should. You knew that. What else is there to say? I hoped she wouldn't drink from that... well. But you knew she would, the minute the witch mentioned it. I hope she remembers what she's to use it for."  
  
Dorian leans onto one arm of couch, resting his cheek on his hand. He sighs. "How many moral compasses does one woman need?"  
  
Blackwall breathes on his lady's hand, squeezes it tight. "It's stress. I know it is. She's better when things are calmer. I don't know what the problem was in the Wilds. She might still have been sick, a little. I don't know. Something isn't right. I want to help her-- I should help her."  
  
A cool breeze drifts through room, and Dorian sighs. "You and me both, big man. I hope you're right. I can't wait for things to get back to normal around here. Such as it is. She'll pull through this. She's too stubborn to get overwhelmed by some old elven priests."  
  


* * *

_**Skyhold**_  
_**The Fourth Day, and After**_  
  
She is a single individual being. Of that there is no question. She slowly drifts back into herself, taking stock of the basics, toes, ears, heartbeat... her hand is warm. Being held, and she would know that hand anywhere. Iskia squeezes Blackwall's hand back, and only then does she open her eyes. "Blackwall," she says, with as much warmth as she can pour into her rusty voice. Maker, it hurts to talk. "How long was I out? Something to drink, please--" the protest of her stomach compels her to add, "-- and eat, too, please. Nothing, nothing much yet please. I don't want an upset."  
  
Blackwall looks behind him, to-- ah, Dorian. Maker, but she's been worrisome, hadn't she? Something would have to be done about that. The veneer of calm would need to thicken some. That's fine. She's feeling good now. Far better than she has in a long time, to be honest. Perhaps it the rest brought that on. Dorian gets up, comes close enough to pat her on the cheek, then heads downstairs.  
  
"Three days. A bit longer," says Blackwall. "Are you..."  
  
"I'm me," Iskia says, carefully sitting up. Someone has changed her to put her in a night-dress. Good. She takes hold of Blackwall's hand with her other, and squeezes. "I'm--" she hesitates, because the notion seems strange. But it's true. "I'm fine. Better than in ages. My head's clear." It's not even a lie. "Clearer than since... before we arrived at the Wilds, I suppose. Enough about me. How are _you_? Tell me you haven't been sitting here the whole time. You've gotten at least _some_ sleep, haven't you?"  
  
"Enough," says Blackwall. "What's important to me is you. I thought my heart would stop." He lowers his head, presses his lips to her fingertips.  
  
Oh, Maker, she's crushing him. No, she can't have that. He's too important to her. Even if she's going to have to-- no. No need to worry about that right now. That damnable business with the Wardens. She lets out her breath, and says like she means it, "I'm sorry." She closes her eyes again, letting out a breath. "It doesn't mean much, I know. I couldn't... I couldn't leave it to Morrigan. I just-- I _knew_ I had to be the one. Knew it with every last bit of me. But I didn't-- I wish you hadn't had to see me like this. It's not that I _want_ to keep frightening you, I..."  
  
He slides his hand out from between hers, and pulls her tight against his chest. "Ssh," he says. "We can talk later. We should... probably talk later. Right now, I have you." Iskia presses her head against his neck, breathing warmly against his skin. Maker, but it feels good to be back in her own bed, with Blackwall right here.  
  
"Is there word back from the Wilds yet?" Still, there's so much to keep track of. She can't let herself fall behind. Mn, but he's so warm, perhaps she can... no, no, not yet. And she does need to eat. Maker, but she's hungry. She lifts her head and both hands, curls her fingers tight into his beard. And she kisses him, kisses him slow and kisses him hard. Blackwall's arms stay around her tight all through it, strong enough for her to melt into.  
  
Blackwall doesn't ever let her go. "The armies will take longer to return, but the others are rushing back as quickly as they can. They'll still be at least a week." He moved his hands, to start dragging his fingers through her hair.  
  
"All right," said Iskia, letting her fingers relax and stroke though Blackwall's beard, smoothing it. All right. She can get through this.  
  
Still, it proves a bit trickier than she might have hoped. There's healers who need to look her over, just to be sure, and there's not really much for her to _do_ , given what a surprise her arrival back in Skyhold is. She takes some time to catch up on her reading. Blackwall is, perhaps, a little too over-protective, but she can think of worst things to do than curl up in bed, lean against his chest, and go through her books.  
  
But she needs to be up and about, and it doesn't relly take _that_ long for her to convince everyone that she's fine, honestly. She supposes the worry is only exacerbated by there being so little to be about right now, with everyone gone. But there's always paperwork to be had.  
  
She sort of likes it, honestly. With everyone important gone, there's less need to be constantly thinking about what she's doing. What it looks like, how it seems. How and when to smile, how to walk. She picks out comfortable clothes, for once. Even manages to slip away unnoticed to watch Blackwall puttering in the stables. That's a nice afternoon, her curled up on top of a bale of hay while he goes about his work. And she gets to catch up on some less militarily-pertinent research with Dorian. She does find herself intrigued by his theories for efficiently heating up Skyhold come winter.  
  
In fact, it's on her way up to see him that Solas accosts her in the rotunda. "Why did you do it?" He demands, dragging her by the wrist toward the wall. "I warned you not to!" Lying little bastard. What had she ever seen in him in the first place? No, that was one mistake she was glad she'd averted.  
  
"I would hardly call what you said a warning," Iskia says, lips pressing tight together. "In fact, you were quite clear that _someone_ needed to drink." No. No, he is not doing this to her. Oh, if he wants to start a fight, he can have it.  
  
But Solas isn't even listening to her. Of course he's not. Does he ever? Ass. "You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!"  
  
"Yes," says Iskia. "I did. That was made abundantly clear at the time. You didn't object very strongly at the time, to either myself or Morrigan undertaking it. Pray tell: what _new insight_ do you have into this matter?"  
  
"You are Mythal's creature now," he says with such horror in his voice that Iskia consciously must stop herself from rolling her eyes. "Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her. You have given up a part of yourself."  
  
A part that is wholly hers to give. A part that was already owed, in truth, by the vallaslin on her face. "Yes," says Iskia. "And I knew that before I drank. I did not do so out of ignorance, Solas. Nor do I appreciate you casting it as such. These are the chains I have chosen. Would I have, in other circumstances? Perhaps not. But service to Mythal is a _small_ price to pay for this knowledge." She lifts one hand to her forehead. Bastard's giving her a headache. But she feels utter certainty at the last. The _others_ , at least, agree with her.  
  
"I would not be so certain of that," says Solas. "But that leads to another excellent question: what will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?" As if it's any of his business at all.  
  
Still, it will do no good to evade. She shrugs. "What I was always going to. I _will_ leave the world better than I found it. The world needs to move forward. I think... all of this has shown that."  
  
"You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better?" Iskia can't even tell, for once, if Solas is looking at her like she's an idiot. "What if it isn't? What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than it was?"  
  
Yes, yes, let's bring up one of the fears that constantly grips at her gut. A fear she can _do nothing about_ , in truth. A pointless fear. A useless fear. The only direction is forward. Stopping moving will only make you drown. Iskia passes one hand over her forehead and says, "What else can you _do_? Risking everything in the hopes of a better future is _life_ , Solas. You don't just get to _stop_ , not so long as you want to draw breath. If it goes wrong, then I do something else. I _keep_ doing something else. _I_ don't have it in me to hide from the world by sleeping in ruins. I don't think you do, either, not in the end. Or else you wouldn't be _here_."  
  
He cracks a smile, one that Iskia cannot reciprocate. Then he does what she in no way expected: he backs down. "You're right. Thank you." When Iskia just raises her eyebrows at him, Solas clarifies, "You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor. You have... impressed me. You have offered hope that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grave, that someday things _will_ be better."  
  
"That's me," Iskia deadpans. "Just one big bundle of hope."  
  
Solas smiles again, but sighs. "Do forgive my melancholy. Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power... that at least we may still recover. With luck, some of the past may still survive."  
  
Iskia bows her head, with as much grace as she can muster. It's not as though she _wants_ the past to be consumed. Impossible to build without a foundation, after all. Even if one must betimes change parts of the foundation. "In this, at least, we agree," she says. "It must be easy to mistake my... forward-thinking for disregard for the past. But history-- our history-- is very dear to me. I simply-- the best way to repeat the mistakes of the past is to shackle yourself to them. We cannot... oh, but this is a debate we should save for another time, I think. I did appreciate your assistance at the temple."  
  
"You're welcome," says Solas, inclining his head in return. She excuses herself then, and hustles upstairs to meet up with Dorian.  
  
Things stay quiet for days, even after everyone gets back. Oh, there are meetings, and meetings, and meetings, discussions of troop movements, and details of how exactly the Well is affecting her (more than she lets on, but not in ways that need concern anyone. Maker, but it is strange to _know_ so much all of a sudden. Without the gradual accumulation of knowledge. Better than drinking, for certain), going over reports still coming out of the Wilds. Busy, but... quiet. Iskia finds it nice, even with the tension of not knowing Corypheus' next move. Her knowledge from the well is silent. She supposes even now she can't directly tell the future.  
  
Might as well schedule to go and deal with some rifts, she supposes. She's in the middle of going over her calendar with her secretary when a runner rushes up, urging her to the eluvian room at Leliana's request. Her _urgent_ request. She exhales and rises, then goes to lace up her boots. It takes more time than she'd like, given the urgency of the request, but she'd rather not trip over her bootlaces. And damn tradition, the floors are _cold_ in Skyhold! She refuses to go barefoot around here.  
  
Leliana is waiting, pacing back and forth in front of a _very active_ eluvian. "Inquisitor!" she says. "Thank the Maker you're here! Morrigan chased after her son into the eluvian. She was terrified."  
  
Iskia took a breath, looking into the shimmering 'glass' surface. "Chasing _Kieran_?" Damn it. He seemed like such a well-behaved boy, any time she'd run into him. Well, she knew where this was going. Unfortunately.  
  
"She said _he_ activated the mirror somehow, and then she ran into it," confirms Leliana, turning to look at the mirror with her. "I've never seen Morrigan like that. You _must_ go after her!" And it must be bad if cautious Leliana is urging her inside. Well, Iskia can't exactly say she disagrees. Who else _should_ go into a place like that? "I'll find help, Inquisitor."  
  
Iskia nods, then flexes her hands in the air. She vaguely wishes she'd brought a staff with her, but, well, it's not critical. She'll manage without, if she has to. "Very well. I'll handle this, Leliana. Don't worry."  
  
Leliana takes off behind her, and Iskia steps through the mirror.  
  
She emerges in the _Fade_. This isn't right. But it would explain why Morrigan didn't come back immediately with the boy. Iskia turns a full circle, hands flexing. There doesn't seem to be any immediate danger, at least, but-- Maker, it feels like everything is watching her. What everything? There's nothing here.  
  
Well, watching isn't harming. Forward, as always. It always strikes her as strange, the ruined-city nature of the Fade. Staircases and sculpture, twisted landscapes. It feels like something should have lived here once. Something besides spirits. It _cannot_ be so simple as it being a mere dream-reflection of the world. And the city in the sky is still golden. How? Ah. There she is. "Morrigan!" Iskia calls, picking up to a jog.  
  
"Go back!" Morrigan calls, peering around an open square. Not that different from any town she's seen, even. "I must find Kieran before it's too late!" Maker, but she sounds frantic. Not that she blames her, really. She doesn't try and wave Iskia off as she approaches, either. "Why would Kieran do this? _How_ could he do this? We stand in the Fade. To direct the eluvian here would require immense power." Her back is still to Iskia, but she sounds near tears. Iskia lifts a hand, lowers it. Damn it all, what was even the right thing to do here? "If he is lost to me, now, after all I have sacrificed..."  
  
Oh, Maker. Confidence, then. Confidence was the key. "We'll find him, Morrigan," says Iskia. And she's even fairly certain she herself believes that. But as she speaks, the feeling of eyes on her grows even stronger. Just ignore them. "He can't be far."  
  
"But the Fade is infinite. He could literally be anywhere." Oh, no, she can't be giving in to despair. Not here, not in the Fade. That could be dire. But she faces Iskia just for long enough to push past her. "Whatever happens to him now, 'tis my doing. _I_ set him on this path. Please, help me look, Inquisitor. Just a little longer."  
  
She looks so... heart-broken. Iskia sighs. Well, no, she can't very well leave Morrigan like this. Iskia squeezes her on the shoulder, then selects a passage out of she square. She's not sure what makes her pick that one, but it feels right. A flash of white catches in her eyes as she moves, but when she stops and looks around, there's nothing. Nothing white anywhere. White. Why does that ring a bell? It's just a colour. She keeps going, through a twisted passage that now seems like more of a dreamscape, odd tables here and there, but some of the sculptures on the walls are like nothing she's seen before. Strange and rippled, with eyes and mouths, but... she doesn't know what creature they could be.  
  
Well, she's glad she wore her boots after all, anyway. _Especially_ when the landscape turns to-- to red lyrium, of all things? _Here_? But how can _that_ be? No, best to keep moving. Wisps drift around her for a second, all blighted red, before fading away. Iskia slides her teeth over her lower lip.  
  
She leaves the lyrium behind, and follows the strange sense of orientation. This, here, it feels like a temple of some sort, the passage flanked with tall, armed statues. More wisps congregate around her, bright and dark, And then, just ahead-- there. She sees the boy, and... someone else? A woman?  
  
"There he is!" calls Morrigan from behind her, and Iskia steps up the pace. Morrigan draws closer, and squints at the other figure. "That's... no. It can't be." It's an old, old woman, white-haired and kneeling before the boy. His hand is raised, and he seems to be working some sort of spell-- but of what nature, Iskia cannot tell.  
  
He snaps his hand away and turns to face them. "Mother!" he calls.  
  
And Morrigan glares at the woman, echoing herself, "Mother."  
  
The woman rises, and looks over Iskia briefly, before looking at Morrigan. Maker, the woman is tall. The feathered shoulders to her armour remind Iskia of... something. But what? "Now, isn't this a surprise," she says. She is not surprised. Not in the slightest. All the hairs on Iskia's arms stand right on end. There's something... strange here.  
  
"Some sort of... family reunion?" Iskia ventures. She _must_ attempt to gain control of the situation. Somehow.  
  
But that angle isn't it. Morrigan's mother laughs, and still stays poised directly behind Kieran. "Mother, daughter, grandson. It rather warms the heart, does it not?" Her hands stay close to the boy. Iskia wets her lips. No, making a grab for him won't do it.  
  
"Kieran is _not_ your grandson," Morrigan protests. She takes a step closer towards her mother. "Let him go!"  
  
Morrigan's mother tugs Kieran a shade closer. "As if I were holding the boy hostage. She's always been ungrateful, you see." Iskia rubs her forehead. Maker, what has she gotten herself into _this_ time?  
  
But the woman struck a nerve with Morrigan, at least. She steps forward, pointing sharply. "Ungrateful? I know how you plan to extend your life, wicked crone! You will not have me, and you will not have my son!" She raises her hands, emerald energy swirling around them.  
  
Morrigan's mother sighs, and looks to Iskia as if for the first time. "Be a good girl and restrain her," she says. Her hand raises briefly, and-- yes, it seems like a perfectly reasonable notion. Whatever Morrigan attempts will only endanger ther son, after all.  
  
Iskia considers the use of power, but no, physical force will do here. She steps between Morrigan and her mother, and pushes Morrigan back a few steps. The power fades from Morrigan's hands, and she stares openly at Iskia. "What are you _doing_?"  
  
The moment passes, and Iskia blinks. Why did she... "I don't know," she says faintly, rubbing her forehead. It was... it had felt exactly as though it had been her own idea to do it, but, no, it clearly had not been. And the boy still stands there, blank as a puppet. Damn. Damn, what is going on?  
  
"Of course you know," says Morrigan's mother. "You drank from the Well, did you not?"  
  
Morrigan says it aloud just as the words form in Iskia's head: "You... are Mythal."  
  
Some of the wisps in the air draw close and tight around Iskia. She takes a deep, heavy breath, and swats them away with one hand. She swallows hard, fingers tingling as she flexes them. "At last," she says faintly, voice barely leaving her throat. Three times. Three times she will bind herself. Freely, of her own true will. Once for protection, once for power, and now--  
  
Iskia kneels.  
  
"You see, girl?" says Mythal, looking back to Morrigan. " _Those_ are manners, as it seems you require a demonstration."  
  
"I require nothing from you but your death!" says Morrigan. Iskia sets her hands flat to the ground. If it is only her who might prevent such a thing, then she shall. Even if it is her own ending, here in this place.  
  
Mythal smirks to her daughter. "You tried that once already, and see how far it got you?" Evidently, the threat is not credible. She pushes Kieran forward, and he seems to comes to life all at once. He runs to his mother, and she pulls him tight against herself, squeezing him close. Iskia rises, and dusts her knees off.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mother," says Kieran. "I heard her calling to me. She said now was the time." And then he returns to Mythal's side. Iskia cocks her head, eyes narrowing at the sight.  
  
"I do not understand," says Morrigan, reaching out as Kieran stands with his divine grandmother.  
  
Mythal looks between Morrigan and Iskia, and says, "Once I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely darkness for justice. And she came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and she granted me all I wanted and more." The wonder in her voice... something deep inside Iskia aches for it. What could that possibly have been like? "I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her."  
  
Could it be like a possession? No, that doesn't seem right. But, nothing ventured, hm? "Then, you carry Mythal inside you?" Iskia asks. If only she could _understand_!  
  
But Mythal shakes her head. "She is a part of me, no more separate than your heart from your chest. What do the voices tell you?"  
  
Iskia closes her eyes, reaches for the knowledge deep within. It might be that she has subsumed them, mostly, but their awareness still exists inside her. "You speak the truth," Iskia says, the clarity rising almost unbidden.  
  
"But what _was_ Mythal?" the woman herself asks. "A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning." She looks Iskia over, slowly, as if memorizing all of her features. "So young, and so vibrant. You do the People proud, and have come far. As for me? I have had many names. But you... may call me Flemeth."  
  
The name rings a bell to Iskia. She's heard stories, of the old Witch of the Wilds. It seems rude to bring it up. The stories of Asha'Bellanar are not ones that would wisely be thrown in anyone's face. "If Mythal is a part of you, then," says Iskia, flexing her fingers. "Why have you not helped us? We've called to you. _I_ have called to you. We have prayed." The pain throbbing behind Iskia's eyes rises once more, and she presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose.  
  
"What was cannot be changed," says Flemeth. Her voice warms Iskia, somehow.  
  
She siezes on that hope. "What about now? You know so much." Maker-- Creators, let the past remain the past, but if Mythal herself still endures, then there is so much her people could gain. To touch what was stolen from them.  
  
"You know not what you ask, child," Flemeth says, shaking her head. Too much to hope for, Iskia supposes.  
  
"Then help _me_ , at least," Iskia asks. "Help me understand: why did Mythal come to you?"  
  
Flemeth smiles, and Iskia goes weak at the knees. "For a reckoning that will shake the very heavens."  
  
"And you follow her whims?" says Morrigan, but Iskia is barely listening. "Do you even know what she truly is?" Foolish woman. It doesn't matter what the reality is. The _truth_ , yes, the _truth_? The truth lies before them. What does it matter what a god truly _is_? What can it matter if people _believe_? Iskia is no more the Herald of Andraste than she is the Empress of Orlais, but she is still called upon to _be_ that Herald. It is what she _is_ , even if she is something else beneath.  
  
"You seek to preserve the powers that were," says Flemeth. "But to what end? It is because I taught you, girl; because things happened that were never meant to happen. She was betrayed, as I was betrayed-- as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed, and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I _will_ see her avenged!" But the passion fails her, and Flemeth sighs. "Alas, so long as the music plays, we dance."  
  
Iskia wets her lips. The third time, for justice. "Then let me be your hand-- your _Herald_ ," she says. "If you would avoid the People, then be that as it may, but even you cannot avenge yourself upon the world alone. I drank of the Well. With full knowledge of what I did, and of my own will. I _myself_ might not have undertaken whatever rites are followed, but I am the closest thing that remains. I am the _last_ priestess of Mythal. I place myself utterly at your disposal."  
  
"Not full knowledge, no," says Flemeth, looking fully upon Iskia now. "You have promised me far more than you ever intended to give, child. Something that was not yours to give."  
  
Iskia cocks her head, tries to tell what in the world she could mean. "I don't understand," she says at last. "The geas, of course-- and you have shown that it is fully in force. What more could I have promised?"  
  
Flemeth laughs, but only for a moment. She shakes her head, and says, "Oh, that part you followed well enough. But you were drinking _for two_."  
  
Iskia doesn't follow, not at first. "For two? But..." Then she closes her eyes tightly. Oh, Maker. She _did_ set the herbs aside. Why did she do that? Damn it all, for greed and for fear. Because Blackwall might yet die of the Joining, whatever it might be. Because she will take whatever she can from him just to keep holding on. Still, she never _expected_ this. Her head spins faintly, as she presses her fingers just below her stomach. "I see. But this once given cannot be revoked. I remain yours. As for my, my child. It seems that power lies in your hands. I would no harm come to them because of me. I suppose it's a little late for that." Damn. Too late now, unless she deals with it the way she did last time. Rather not, though. Not unless she has to. "I-- trust you're not going to have much use for a baby. What comes, comes. I'll voice my objections then."  
  
Morrigan turns sharply to Iskia. "You fool!" she says, stepping closer. "She has her claws in _my son_ this very second, and you mean to just _trust_ her?"  
  
Iskia throws up her hands. "Well, it's not like I have any other good options right now, do I? If this becomes a fight later, then _so be it_. But for now? Yes. That's exactly what I intend. Never look down, Morrigan. It's a long, long fall." She turns back to Flemeth. "Please: will you help us?"  
  
And Flemeth smiles. "Once I have what I came for." Her gaze settles on Morrigan.  
  
"No!" says Morrigan, once she realizes Flemeth's intentions. "I will not allow it!"  
  
"He carries a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness. You know this," says Flemeth. Well, Morrigan might, but Iskia certainly does not. Clearly, it is not for her to ask, but she cannot quite stifle her curiosity. She tilts her head closer, listening.  
  
Not that she really needs to strain. Not a soft-spoken woman, Morrigan. "He is not your pawn, Mother. I will not let you use him!"  
  
"Have _you_ not used him?" says Flemeth. "Was that not your purpose; the reason you agreed to his creation?" Is the boy... possessed, somehow, then? Some sort of experiment? Certainly he seems odd, but not that abnormal. Iskia stays shut up.  
  
Either way, Morrigan doesn't like it. "That was then. Now he... he is my _son_." The Fade-light catches in Flemeth's eyes. A passed test, apparently. But Morrigan continues. "Flemeth extends her life by possessing the bodies of her daughters, Inquisitor. That was the fate she intended for me. I thwarted her, and now she intends to have Kieran instead!"  
  
A large assumption. Still, what an interesting notion. Only through bloodlines, then? Hmm. A thought best saved for another time. Best not to look too intrigued in front of Morrigan. "What is it about Kieran, then?" she asks instead. It is a subject better changed.  
  
" _I_ am not the only one carrying the soul of a being long thought lost," Flemeth says. Damn this cryptic business.  
  
"He is more than that, _Mother_ ," says Morrigan.  
  
"As am I, yet do you hear me complain?" Flemeth says, waving one hand. "Our destinies are not so easily avoided, dear girl."  
  
The boy speaks at last, shaking his head clear of whatever daze surrounds him. "Mother, I have to."  
  
But Morrigan begs, "You do not belong to her, Kieran. Neither of us do!"  
  
"Why come for him now, then, if he's so special?" Iskia wets her lips. Perhaps she was wrong about Flemeth having no use for an infant. But surely whatever she's done to this child of hers is different from what Kieran holds. Surely the lack of blood relation will matter.  
  
Flemeth smiles once more. "I didn't know where he was," she says. "Morrigan cleverly hid him from me... until now." She turns the smile onto Iskia.  
  
"'Twas the Well..." says Morrigan, shutting her eyes.  
  
"Be thankful _you_ did not drink. Imagine, bound to your dear mother for eternity." Flemeth laughs again. Not that Iskia likes the notion a great deal, either-- but it is a small price to pay. She hopes. A faint wash of dizziness rips through her skull. The _child_. Damn herself. If she is not already.  
  
Morrigan cannot be right about this much though. "You're not intending to steal the body of a small boy," Iskia says. That much she knows to be untrue. But she can use it to draw out more information, she hopes.  
  
"If my daughter believes it, then it must be so," says Flemeth, smiling as she looks to Iskia. Damn it, of course she knows what she's about. The _Well_.  
  
Morrigan, at any rate, is spent. She drops to her knees before her son, fingers curling uselessly against the ground. "Kieran, I..."  
  
The boy is aware enough, at least, to turn to his grandmother, and fix her with silent, pleading eyes. He does not speak, well-mannered as he is, but it seems enough to sway Flemeth. "As you wish." she says. "Hear my proposal, dear girl." She waits for Morrigan to rise before continuing. "Let me take the lad, and you are free of me forever. I will never interfere with or harm you again. Or, keep the lad with you... and you will never be safe from me. I will have my due." Ah. Iskia sees it now. A strange relief washes through her-- strange, for that it speaks of no true safety for her and what will come. But she _understands_.  
  
Morrigan does not hesitate for even an instant. "He returns with me."  
  
"Decided so quickly?"  
  
"Do whatever you wish," says Morrigan. If anything she grows surer with each word. "Take over my body now, if you must, but Kieran will be free of your clutches. I am many things, but I will _not_ be the mother you were to me."  
  
Flemeth cocks her head, remaining silent, then turns once more to Kieran. They share a long, long look, before she takes his hands in hers. Then-- something, some wisp or force drifts out of Kieran's chest, staining them both with its light. It lingers in the air a scant moment, and fades away into Flemeth. She graces him with a smile that is wholly reassuring.  
  
"No more dreams?" he asks, and there is something about his voice that is very different. Less... alien. More real, somehow.  
  
"No more dreams," assures his grandmother, and he smiles. They let go of each other's hands, and he walks, calm as can be, to his mother's side.  
  
"A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan," says Flemeth. "You were never in danger from me. As for you, Inquisitor, there is an ancient altar deep within a shaded wood. Go to it. Summon the dragon that is its guardian. Master it in combat, and it is yours to comand against Corypheus. Fail, and die." She turns away, looking over her shoulder as she begins to walk. "I accept your offer. Perhaps one day I will have a task for you... or your daughter. But for now, I think you have more important matters to attend to."  
  
"Wait!" calls Morrigan, but Flemeth never looks back again.  
  
Iskia shakes her head, two, three times. "Let's just go. I remember the route we took. Come on, Kieran."  
  
The three of them retrace their steps in silence. Iskia only pauses on the way long enough to gather some rock-dust and pebbles, but lacking a pouch or pockets, she finds herself unenviably pouring the little handful down her boot. Not comfortable, but she can ignore that much. Dagna might learn much from it, she hopes. Easier to think of such things as that than to worry about what Flemeth told her.  
  
The very second they emerge in Skyhold, Morrigan sets her hands firmly on Kieran's shoulders. "Are you all right? You are not hurt?"  
  
"I feel lonely," he says, head cocking. But his mother smiles to him, and he back at her. She releases him, and he slowly ambles out to the garden.  
  
Morrigan watches him go. "She wanted the Old God soul all along..." Wait, _what_? Is _that_ what he had inside him, before Flemeth took it? Dear Maker. "Is it worth reminding myself that perhaps I do not know everything after all?" she wonders. "My mother has the soul of an elven goddess-- or whatever 'Mythal' truly was-- and her plans are unknown to me."  
  
"There were no... hints or anything?" Iskia asks, lifting her shoulders. Of course, how would she know what a goddess in hiding would look like? If you didn't know what you were looking for, how could you tell?  
  
Morrigan lifts her hands. "I knew she kept the truth from me. I even suspected she was not truly human... but this? I always thought the so-called 'elven gods' were little more than aglorified rulers. But now... I have doubt. And doubt is... an uncomfortable thing, Inquisitor. I suppose I should be thankful you drank from the Well. Eternal servitude to Mother would not be my first choice. But ward your child, Inquisitor. Keep them close."  
  
Yes. Yes, that will be important. But Iskia will not deal with that now. Set it aside for later. There is one other thing that draws her attention. "Then Kieran had... the soul of an Old God?"  
  
"Taken from the Archdemon at the final battle of the Fifth Blight, yes," Morrigan confirms. "He has never known anything else. I am uncertain what effect this will have on him."  
  
"But why did you...?"  
  
"I told you at the temple," Morrigan says, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "The magic of old must be preserved, no matter how feared." She lowers her head and sighs. "Kieran had a destiny, and now it is in Flemeth's hands. I suppose we shall see what she does with it."  
  
Iskia sighs. Is this where she will be standing in ten years? Perhaps. "You did... do right," she says, after a moment, one hand drifting down her stomach.  
  
"Did I?" asks Morrigan, and she reaches so far for hope that even Iskia's heart bleeds. "She was testing me, and I cannot tell whether I passed."  
  
"Then let me say this," Iskia says. Something in her compels her to offer what reassurance she can. All the contempt and irritation she had for other woman melts, in this moment. "Whatever else she is, whatever she has been to you, Mythal is the eternal _mother_. And you? You, with your soul on the line, stood between your son and the knife. What you _believed_ to be the knife: and in that moment it was true, and the danger was real. You _passed_ her test, Morrigan."  
  
Morrigan closes her eyes for a moment, then turns to close the eluvian. "I can only hope that you are right. She said that you must summon a dragon at an ancient altar. Do you know where that is?"  
  
Iskia finds that she does. "Yes," she says. "A place dedicated to Mythal."  
  
"As, no doubt, is the guardian you must battle," says Morrigan. "Pray my mother has not led you astray, Inquisitor. You may know the 'goddess', but my _mother_ is not above doing so for her own amusement."  
  
"We'll do a practice run or two," says Iskia, shrugging. She smoothes down her trousers, then turns to the door. "There's a few high dragons terrorizing the countryside that should be dealt with regardless. But if you'll excuse me. I-- I have news."

**Author's Note:**

> Brief epilogue available [here](http://villainfetish.tumblr.com/post/113391159303/iskia-blackwall-with-27-just-for-the-fun-of-it)


End file.
